


Clarity

by Nattlys



Series: The Thoughts and Thinkings of Nightlights [1]
Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: 'Other' because Sandy is Sandy and Nightlight's not exactly binary, And a vague allusion to Manny, It's written from Nightlight's perspective if that'll be an issue, Mentions of Katherine, Other, POV First Person, Vague softcore nonsense, sometimes we can have nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 18:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13218825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattlys/pseuds/Nattlys
Summary: Nightlight has moments of lucidity. Sandy capitalizes on them (and technically causes them).





	Clarity

He rests there on my chest, and he pets my armor, letting the stray parts of it that don’t retreat under his warm touch any longer leech his golden light from him. Of course, he has more than enough to spare– my little captured sun, a beacon of gold in the night.

And I am _greedy_ for light. Though I glow, too, my glow is not a ‘ _giving off light_ ’ glow but an ' _absence of dark_ ’ glow, the distinct sharpness of it something else, something older, something define from a time before definitions were drawn and ordered, while he is soft and plump, like the ripest of peaches.

_Peaches._

I hum against the crook of his neck. I seem to collect peaches.

Gentle, quiet things, easily bruised and easily made to drip with juice, whether because I have bitten too hard or squeezed too tight. That is my problem– being too much.

It may be why Katherine leaves; why she never stays. She is all chestnut-brown and darker speckles and secret things (like words and perfume and _lace-beneath-clothes_ ). She is not a peach, and therefore I cannot have her.

He tugs at my hand until I give it to him, and I am reminded that he is greedy, too. Greedy in ways I was not until his creation, at least in the abstract, determined I should be– greedy in ways all creatures after have been, this so-called _'original sin'_ that the busy little beings on this planet bemoan so and yet continue to do and have and cause, pushing their planet to its seams without even having safe spaceflight.

He is _curved_ and _lovely_ and warm like bathwater, and instead of _lace-beneath-clothes_ there are _curls-and-sand-and-more-sand_ and I have forgotten how _much_ sand comes with him. This delights him, and he laughs at me, though not in that way that the others would know is a laugh, and this makes me all the more pleased, because this is a laugh that we can only share with each other, and I like things that I can say are mine to have.

I am _possessive_ , I am told.

If I am possessive it is because I am meant to be, and those things that are mine have a habit of being taken away from me.

When he kisses me it is because I have turned inward and forgotten what I was doing again, and he can only huff because where he is effortless grace I am clumsy, eager to please but unable to recall how to do so. He guides my hands– _eternally patient, my Lord is_ – and I remember when he pulls away and I am left with sand gritting between my teeth and tongue.

“Ah,” I say, and then again, lower, the noise drawn out from my lungs. “ _Ahhh._ ”

This kiss is because he can– and the kiss after that is because he wants to– and the kiss after that one, too, is because he wants to– and then there are a multitude more with less necessary things attached, like thinking I am beautiful, or because I have accidentally swallowed the sand he has pushed under my tongue, or because my hands have stopped again because he has overwhelmed me with kisses.

I pant helplessly, mist and sparks seeping from my lips, and beg forgiveness.

My Lord, pleased and sated, is cruel in his mercy, and kisses me twice more for my transgressions.

One for mercy and one for cruelty.

Though he will insist both are because he cannot help himself and he takes pleasure in bruising my mouth until my lips have become swollen, I can tell what he does not say and will never say, because we have never spoken to each other the way he speaks to the others. They need to be guided through to reach a conclusion– I am presented with all information at once, at light-speed, and draw my conclusion and answer his call just as quickly, meaning the only one other than us who could hold his ground is the man in black who refuses to _speak, talk, pantomime, or otherwise communicate_ in any way with us beyond _squawking_ sounds and noises at everyone like the others do, because he is afraid of himself.

That is okay. I understand.

Sanderson presses at me, and I yield, and the night is over far too quickly. That is okay, too– there will be tomorrow night, and the next night, and all the others beyond it.

We can afford that.


End file.
